


Viva Voce

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, S1, bedannibalprompts, post-sorbet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 20:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: viva voce:an oral examination, typically for an academic qualification.Or, Hannibal asks Bedelia to profile the Ripper.





	Viva Voce

Hannibal pours them both two generous glasses of Tuscan red, enjoying the way the wine splashes in the rounded bowl of the glass, a bright waterfall of blood. “Brunello di Montalcino,” he proclaims, “grown in Siena, the hometown of soprano Leonora Sarti, the guest of honor at my latest dinner party. Since you politely declined your invitation, again, I saved a bottle to share with you.”

“How very thoughtful.” Bedelia peers over the rim of her glass, eyes a charged and wary electric blue. “ _Salute_.”

He is pleased at the small smile that tugs at her lips as she tastes, the ruby red gloss that covers her mouth. He would like to dine with her one day, to watch her devour delicacy after delicacy alongside him. But for now he will savor the pleasure of watching her drink.

“It’s dry and rich. I like it,” Bedelia says.

“Yes. When preserved correctly, it gets impressively better with time,” he says, knowing she will parse the subtext in his words.

Bedelia leans back against the countertop, a slight gesture of repose. He is happy they are drinking in her kitchen—it brings out an informality in both of them, a chance to unbutton their respective person suits, just a little. “And how was your latest dinner party?” she asks.

“A delightful evening…despite lacking one or two very important guests.” When Bedelia cocks her eyebrow at him in inquiry, he elaborates. “Mr. Graham, like you, also politely declined his invitation.”

He sees her savoring that choice piece of information, rolling it around in her mind like a mouthful of Chianti. “You did not mention this in our session.”

“No. I didn’t,” he says, the firmness in his tone signaling that the subject is closed for now. He chooses the next line of discussion very carefully. “The conversation at dinner left something to be desired, however. All anyone could talk about was the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Bedelia’s eyes flick to the panel in the wall and the glowing keypad of the new security system she had recently installed. “I suppose it is natural. The local press seems to cover nothing else.”

Her lack of curiosity about the Ripper wounds him somehow; he had expected more from her. “Everyone seemed to have their pet theories over who he—or she—might be. Alana Bloom hinted that the FBI suspects the Ripper may be some kind of medical professional—how frightening to think the killer could be a colleague, prowling the halls of Hopkins,” he says with a performative shiver. “Others thought the timing indicated a stranger—some kind of itinerant consultant or contractor—given the years between the murders.”

“People die in this city every day, Hannibal, casualties of Baltimore’s poverty and never-ending drug war. The denizens of our social strata turn a blind eye to those deaths—but they cannot ignore when someone is murdered in their own backyard, seemingly without rhyme or reason. It threatens the very fabric of their existence, of the social contract as we know it,” Bedelia says, her analytic tone even drier than the wine.

Hearing her speak of the Ripper kindles a pang of hunger in him—one taste and he is starving for more. “Do you have any pet theories of your own, Doctor?”

“Criminal psychology is not my specialty, Hannibal, as you well know. I am sure your new friends at the FBI are much more well-informed.”

“Please. You must indulge my curiosity, as you did not get to participate in last week’s parlor game.”

“Very well,” she says, taking a sip of wine. He can feel her eyes on him, picking at the seams of his person suit, curious at his insistence. And then her gaze goes soft, far away, peering behind some invisible veil as she turns over the evidence in her mind. It is not unlike Will Graham’s process—though Bedelia is chilled and restrained where Will is feverish and wild. “I do not believe the Ripper is a stranger to our community. He walks among us,” she says at last.

“Oh? How so?”

She paces the room as she thinks, heels clacking in elegant counterpoint on the hardwood floors like a flamenco dancer, her kitchen for a stage. “He enjoys the city in a state of terror. Our fear—he wishes to savor it, the way you would a fine meal.”

She is close, so very close to peering behind the veil—he wonders if she knows how dangerously close she is. Bluebeard’s wife at the door of the bloody chamber, fumbling for the key. He steps near her and purrs in her ear. “Male or female?”

“A man,” she says without pause.

“How can you be so certain?”

“Women turn their anger inward. They destroy themselves or their children, who they see as extensions of themselves,” she says smoothly. “Usually.”

He thinks of Bedelia’s arm elbow-deep in Neal Frank’s blood. “Usually,” he echoes.

The reminder of Bedelia’s own violent nature has caused her to turn quiet and she pours herself another glass. “You think the Ripper is angry?” he prompts, drawing her back. “Some would say the killings are antiseptic…the opposite of a crime of passion.”

“There are many kinds of anger,” Bedelia tells him enigmatically. “His is the slow-burning kind. Something…or someone…was taken from him at a young age. It left a wound, a black hole that can never be filled. And now he takes from all of us—our security, our safety, our lives.”

Her insight dazzles, like sunlight refracting through the facets of a diamond. Her fingers grasp at the edge of his veil, but she cannot…or will not…pull it back. They are waltzing so close to the edge of the abyss and it is the headiest vintage, too intoxicating to resist. “Leonora regaled us with a phantom from her childhood—Il Mostro, the monster of Florence, who used the bodies of his victims to recreate the paintings of Botticelli. She said the Ripper reminded her of him with his flair for the dramatic.”

Bedelia pauses and he can visibly see the moment she meets the threshold of revelation, hear the key clicking in the lock of his own bloody chamber. “Didn’t you study in Florence as a young man?” she asks.

Now is the moment where he could shed his person suit and stand naked before her in all of his glory. She would finally see him,  _all_  of him. But she is not ready for that truth, and frankly, neither is he. “It was before my time,” he lies, feeling suddenly weak with shyness; cowardice, too.

Bedelia holds his gaze a full second, considering, then breaks away, a toss of golden hair over her shoulder as she dispels a strange passing thought. “This wine is excellent, elegant in its simplicity. Perhaps I should reconsider attending your dinner parties.”

He smiles warmly, swooping close to further distract her. He moves to top off her glass with one hand while embracing the small of her back with the other. “As much as I would enjoy that, I think I prefer sharing these vintages alone with you. It is so much more…intimate…than a dinner party would allow.” His fingers ghost up and down her spine until they brush the end of a golden curl. He sees her pupils widen fractionally in arousal as he stokes the embers of a desire he knows Bedelia feels, but will not give in to.

Her soft lips part, but before she can speak, he smoothly dances away. She will wrestle with herself tonight after he has gone, a tug of war between her libido and her ethics. All thoughts of the Ripper will disappear like morning mist. At least for a little while. 

**Author's Note:**

> Leonora is the name given for the opera singer who performs at the "Benefit for Hunger Relief" at the beginning of "Sorbet." I gave her the surname Sarti, which the interwebs tell me is a common name in Tuscany. It also means "tailor," a nod to Hannibal's person suit.


End file.
